


All Through The Night

by heartoftheocean



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (not by any of the boys), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Babies, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Infant Death, Kinda, London, M/M, Medical, Medical Conditions, Medical Procedures, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, Nurse!Louis, Premature Babies, RT!Niall, References to Drugs, Ridiculous 1D References, Romance, Slow Burn, Smut, Social Worker!Liam, Tragedy, cursing, doctor!harry, kinda lmao harry is a sweetheart, really sad i'm warning ya'll
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-03-26 13:30:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13858755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartoftheocean/pseuds/heartoftheocean
Summary: There is a room that is always perpetually in motion. Inside, the most extraordinary medicine is performed on the most extraordinary patients there are, yet it is a place shrouded in mystery, closed off from view except for the doctors and nurses who devote themselves to it and the parents who wish their child was anywhere but there. It is the hub of Westminster Children’s Hospital, the NICU. Nurse Louis Tomlinson is the backbone of the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit; efficient, great at soothing panicked parents, and gentle with even the tiniest of babies. Enter Dr. Harry Styles, the new, handsome, and infuriatingly talented neonatal attending who has no business in Louis’ NICU, thank you very much.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> This is my first ever fic, and I’m terrified. I was inspired to write this because of the complete lack of Neotalnurse!Louis fics and because I am fascinated with the field neonatology. I’ve spent summers and school holidays observing nurses, doctors, and premature babies. I'm still in high school, and I've got a lot to learn, but my primary goal for this fic is to introduce people to the tragedies and triumphs that happen every day in the Neonatal ICU. It is the most elusive part of any hospital, but it is the only room where hope burns so strongly it feels tangible.
> 
> ***DISCLAIMER/WARNINGS***  
> I’m NOT a medical professional, though I did research extensively to make this fic as medically accurate as possible! Please excuse any inaccuracies. I also do not own One Direction, and would much appreciate it if this work of fiction wasn't shared with anyone associated with 1D. Despite the lightheartedness of the summary, this fic contains graphic medical descriptions, neonatal abuse, and infant death, so please be careful. I am in no way trying to disrespect the families of premature infants, the babies themselves, or the people who work tirelessly to save their lives. I have so much respect for them, and I hope I can show that through this fic. I do not own anything except my writing! This is also unbeta'd so beware. 
> 
> Title is from Sleeping At Last's song All Through the Night
> 
> Okay, now that's out of the way...here we go!

_Admission History and Physical:_

**Evans, BB**

Day of life. . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

Days in NICU . . . . . . . . . .  1

        Condition . . . . . . . . . . . .  Critical 

Louis races down the hospital hallway with a troop of nurses and doctors he can’t be arsed to recognize at the moment. They’ve all got a job to do, and this is no time for pleasantries. He’s got both his hands pushing the incubator and the entirely too new vans he chose to wear this morning don’t pinch anymore, his mind too preoccupied to be bothered by blisters, even though he knows the backs of his heels are bleeding.

“We’ve got an incoming emergency admission. Thirty eight weeker, no information from the previous hospital or paramedics. Yes, I know it’s not ideal—” Thalia, the charge nurse that morning, is informing the NICU about their new patient, phone smashed between her shoulder and her cheek, making her speech sound wobbly. Although, Louis is sure it’s not just because of the phone pressing into her face. Sucker punch cases are the worst on everyone involved.  

Inside the isolette lies baby boy Ezekiel Evans. Full term babies usually have no complications, but whatever the trouble is with baby Evans remains a mystery, despite all the pairs of eyes trained on him. The heated acrylic case is the only thing keeping the severely compromised thirty eight-weeker alive.

 _For now_ , Louis thinks darkly, blowing his fringe away from his face from when it swept into his eyes out on the helipad. Baby Evans had just been flown in from a tiny, rural hospital in extremely critical condition just after he was born, and none of the idiots in the other hospital and in the air evac hadn’t thought to examine him.

Why didn’t they do something _earlier_?! Louis’ frustration builds as his shouts to clear a path grow louder, his voice echoing down the blinding white hallways. 

“That bloody excuse for a hospital doesn’t know what’s up with this kid, didn’t notify us that he was coming in until _ten fucking minutes_ ago _,_ and we haven't even had the time to take assess him! No one even had the sense to get his Apgars!” Louis pants, outraged. The tightness in his chest feels like a ticking time bomb ready to explode. He’s never been more pissed off in his life, and it’s only eight AM. It’s going to be a long day, he already knows it.

“He looks really dusky, Lou.” Niall, one of the unit’s respiratory therapists, answers grimly, fiddling with the oxygen controls on the isolette. His eyebrows furrow as he monitors the infant's almost undetectable, fluttering breaths. He quickly acknowledges Niall with a nod and goes back to trying to clear a path for his delicate patient and its entourage. Niall’s observation was anything but encouraging.

During a long stretch of empty corridor, he steals a look down at the incubator. It’s hard to peek at what’s inside, with the hurry they're in and all the wires, but Louis sees enough. Despite everyone’s best efforts and the onslaught of life-saving technology the incubator provides, the Evans baby is pale, soundless, and greyish blue.

Louis’ heart clenches in distress. He wants to stop pushing the incubator and just do _something_ ; he doesn’t care if it’s the middle of a corridor or not. He won’t lose another one. He refuses. The last time was a _mistake_ , a stupid, careless mistake, and there's no room in neonatal medicine for mistakes. He starts running faster, heart pounding, racing against the clock, and doing everything in his power to beat it.

“C’mon, just a bit longer,” he murmurs as the NICU doors grow closer and closer. He doesn’t register the swift beep of someone’s key card and the door opening, just the bright, fluorescent lights of the unit and hurried bustle of the rest of the NICU team waiting for them.

Louis feels a twinge of pride, teamwork is essential in his line of work, and the NICU team has got it down pat. They manage to squeeze themselves and the isolette into the small, adjoined treatment room at the back of the NICU and promptly get started.

“Evans, baby boy, born by crash C-section to thirty one year old mother on October fifth, twenty eighteen, at six ten AM. Arrival time seven forty AM. Six pounds, eight ounces,” shouts Erica, the unit’s neonatal nurse coordinator, from the doorway. She’s got some of his information, then. Good. Louis is barely beginning to throw a sterile gown on when Erica continues with more news. “Mother ruptured yesterday at two o’clock in the afternoon... _shit!_ ” She says the last part said behind gritted teeth, her pen scribbling down more of the baby’s information at lightning speed. Louis understands her frustration; the longer the time between a mother’s water breaking and her baby being born can make both of them more susceptible to infection and other deadly complications.

“Why didn’t they do anything sooner?! The decels should’ve let them know something was up,” yells an exasperated nurse.

Louis silently agrees as he quickly helps her remove the top of the incubator and move the baby under a warming table. Baby Evans’ pallor hasn’t gotten much better since the small peek Louis allowed himself in the hallway. Not another one, he reminds himself, reaching for his stethoscope. Not a single one. The metallic taste of blood blooms over his tongue from how hard he’s been biting his the inside of his cheek. 

One of the newer fellows, Dr. Wilson, rushes to the front of the table and tips the baby’s chin up, messily inserting a breathing tube to suction out any fluid that isn’t allowing the baby breathe properly. Almost immediately, blood spews from the baby’s mouth, thick and bright red, splattering the clear inner part of the tube. Louis holds his breath, willing himself not to grab the tube from Wilson’s shaking hands and intubate the baby himself.

He grips the edge of the examination table and watches, his hands itching to do something. He feels useless to the Evans baby, and the thought makes his head throb. Louis knows that what this baby needs right now is for him to stay calm, so he distracts himself by thinking about one of the first rules his mentors told him in nursing school; _care about the patient, but don’t let it become personal._ He’s heard that line from everyone, especially since the incident. He’s never been too keen on following instructions, though.

When Dr. Wilson pulls the breathing tube out to search for the source of the bleeding, the infant completely destats, heart coming to a complete stop. Louis can’t say he’s surprised, Wilson sucks at placing trach tubes, but fear’s cold grip on his heart makes all the color drain from his face.

“Code Blue! Code Blue! Let’s get a crash cart in here!” she cries, vainly trying to reposition the tube. Her hands are even shakier than before.

Louis immediately jumps in, beginning chest compressions with two steady fingers. This he can do without losing anyone’s respect or his license. Dr. Wilson shoots him a grateful look, then goes back her tube. The resident who had accompanied his team was nowhere to be found, probably trolling the NICU for a more promising case. _Fucking prick_ , Louis thinks, swallowing down a frustrated noise. The baby’s eyes remain closed.

“Get one of the attendings in here. Stat.” Louis barks, continuing to manually circulate blood to the rest of the baby’s body as Niall bags him in time with his compressions. He knows what’s happened to the baby, and the prognosis is not promising if he runs out of time.

Louis has had patients die before, sure. He works in medicine; it’s kind of inevitable. He’s seen the light of a baby’s eyes dim, ceasing to exist, and knows that the pain that comes with the death of a new life is always heartbreaking. He’s had to console crying parents he’s known for months after just breaking down in the hospital stairwell himself. He knows how to put on a brave face, knows how to feign strength for a family who just lost all of theirs. He’s been invited to funerals for lives lost too soon, and he’s attended all of them. However, despite the sadness that surrounds his area of work, the love he has for his job and his patients always has him back outside the hospital doors at seven AM sharp, ready to tackle a new shift.

But after the last time, everything went to shit. He still doesn’t understand why the chief hasn’t thrown out him out yet. He hadn’t even been suspended. Instead, he was given a week of leave to “relax.” He couldn’t relax. His failure as a nurse that day seemed clear to him.

He could’ve done something. Could’ve been watching her more closely. It had been his fault. He couldn’t tell that baby’s family that he had done everything possible to save her because he hadn’t. His guilt from that night remained like a stain that wouldn’t wash out, even though the parents had assured him it wasn’t his fault.

Louis’ compressions stay even and controlled, despite the turmoil in his head. He refuses to compromise this baby, or any other baby, ever again. The sting of unshushed tears starts smarting his eyes, but he forces himself to not let them fall, at least for the sake of maintaining sterility. He’s got a job to do.

 

///☤///

 

Exactly two minutes later, Dr. Harry Styles rushes into the unit, white coat fluttering behind him. He wasn’t expecting an easy first day at Westminster Children’s, but a Code Blue already? He just got here! Not good, he thinks, taking in the scene from the doorway of the treatment room to see where his assistance is needed the most. The loud beeps and strained orders bouncing off the walls of the NICU fade away, his eyes zeroing in on the Evans baby boy they paged him about. He’s in full code; the respiratory therapist, a pale man with a shock of blonde hair, bags the child with his hand-pumped ventilator and a young, caramel haired nurse applies compressions with two delicate fingers to the baby’s tiny chest, head down, focused. To his right, a panicked fellow tries squeezing a breathing tube back into place, unsuccessfully.

_Bingo._

 

///☤///

 

“Okay, let’s see what we have here.” Louis isn’t unnerved by the deep and unfamiliar voice, it’s a big hospital, after all, and Dr. Richard, the Chief of Neonatology, said there would be lots of new faces in the next few months at the last department meeting. Staffing shortage, apparently.

“Pulmonary hemorrhage,” Louis says gravely, finally looking up and stepping aside so the attending can help Wilson with the breathing tube. Instead, he bumps into a broad chest directly behind him. He hastily turns his head to mutter an apology, keeping up his compressions. He knows how tetchy doctors can get about that sort of stuff.

The sight before him almost makes him falter— _almost_. He’s still a _professional_ , damn it. The doctor’s green gaze fixes onto him, and the upward quirk of his mouth suggests he approves of Louis’ diagnosis. He blinks, looking away from the handsome, curly haired doctor, cheeks aflame. What the fuck is with his mood swings? And the hot doctors? He swiftly dissipates any thoughts of the cherub faced attending with a shake of his head and goes right back to counting his compressions. He can't have his brain go all wonky over a _boy_. A baby’s life is his number one priority, always, no matter how attractive the new attending is.

 

///☤///

 

 _Shit. Why did it have to be that?_ Harry knows that bleeding from the lungs is one of the most devastating ailments a NICU baby faces, because there is no way to physically repair the tiny bleeding vessels inside the baby’s lungs, and because it can kill faster than any other trauma, as the baby can literally drown in its own blood. The blonde respiratory therapist pauses the oxygen administration to use his suction hose; the clear plastic tube fills with bright red once again.

“No heart rate, no respiration,” the pretty nurse next to him says grimly, his blue eyes tired and red rimmed, miniature stethoscope dangling from his neck. “He’s been down for” ––a glance to the clock–– “three minutes.”

“Hold on, baby. Hold on,” Harry pleads gently, carefully removing the painstakingly placed breathing tube. He tips the baby’s head back and peers down its open mouth with his laryngoscope, pushing aside the baby’s tongue with the blade so he can visualize the vocal cords and find a pathway for placing the breathing tube down the baby’s throat. The tube should go past the larynx and into the trachea so that oxygen can be pumped at high pressure directly into the baby’s lungs. He can feel the nurse he made eye contact with a few seconds ago peering over his shoulder, tiptoeing probably, as he maneuvers the thin plastic endotracheal tube into baby Evans’ windpipe, roughly the diameter of a pencil. It’s time to focus now, he tells himself. No more thinking about the lovely little nurse just a few centimeters away. He does the procedure quickly, yet precisely. Traching a newborn requires the finesse of a brain surgeon, especially when copious amounts of blood block his view. The nurses here may be cute, but Harry’s first love has always been medicine.

“Alright, got it. I’m in,” he says after a few seconds. “A dose of epi, please.”

The frazzled looking nurse springs into action, allowing another nurse to take over compressions. He pours a small amount of epinephrine into the baby’s breathing tube so it can blow into his lungs. Epi usually used as heart stimulant, but it also constricts blood vessels, something Harry hopes will slow the flow of blood from baby Evans’ lungs as well as give his heart a jolt. The nurse, _Louis Tomlinson_ , Harry reads off from the hospital ID clipped onto his scrub gown, threads an IV line into the stump of the baby’s fleshy umbilical cord. Harry’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Umbilical lines are the quickest way to administer code drugs to an infant, and he's shocked that the fellow hadn’t done it herself, or at least mentioned it. Nurses don’t do lines; it’s not even allowed in some hospitals. What Louis did may have saved this baby’s life, and he’s deeply impressed by his quick thinking. 

That doesn’t go to say that he’s never had competent nurses before, in fact, he would argue that neonatal nurses are most determined, compassionate, and hardworking people he’s had the pleasure of working with. However, the boy in front of him is effortlessly intelligent, passionate about his work, and devastatingly _gorgeous_ , now that Harry’s gotten a good look at him. He’s never been partial to scrubs, but when his eyes flicker down to how the powder blue material stretches across Louis’ arse, he’s suddenly a huge fan.

“Excuse me, _Doctor_ ,” quips Louis, not looking up from where he’s aiming for the single vein in the umbilical cord, “Could you please stop ogling me bum and _focus_?” He says the words quietly, clearly meant for only Harry to hear, but there’s a define bite behind them. Harry freezes, completely gobsmacked, eyes blinking rapidly and mouth slightly open. “Right,” he stutters, “Of course, sorry,” He whispers and snaps his eyes back to the baby. He hardens his resolve just as Louis finishes up the line, the whole ordeal lasting just under a minute. Louis switches off with the nurse who’s he’s been trading off compressions with, using a gentle touch and two small, slender fingers. The respiratory therapist continues to bag the baby.

“Another dose of epi, please,” Harry orders. The next shot goes right into the umbilical line, straight to the heart, thanks to Louis. However, the baby is still not responding.

 Harry’s sense of urgency mounts with each passing second, and any hope of saving baby Evans slips away with each tick of the clock. He bites his lip. The infant’s flesh looks grey and waxy instead of the rosy pink that tints the soft skin of healthy newborns. His chubby limbs lay sprawled out and limp, carelessly positioned, like a doll’s. This is not good, Harry thinks, even though his voice remains steady, polite, and formal, never betraying his emotions as he gives out more orders. His teachers told him in medical school that he couldn’t save everyone, and he’s accepted that. Sometimes a baby chooses whether it’s going to live or die, and there's nothing he can do about it, but when he can, he does, and he does it well.

 Everyone in the medical field has a philosophy, and at the root of Harry’s is the almost crushing fear of making a mistake, a fear he embraces and makes good use of every day. During his residency, before he realized what he was really getting into–– before he knew what it felt like to be truly afraid, one of his mentors told him, _“Fear keeps you honest, keeps you checking yourself. When you walk into the NICU and feel no fear, it’s time to go find a new job.”_ These words stuck with Harry through every emergency, examination, admission, and delivery. He’s meticulous in his work, always has been, thanks to fear. His reputation for his excellence in neonatology is what brought him to this hospital. Every time he scans over a chart, dictates a History and Physical report, or guides a resident through a procedure, he remembers his mentor’s favorite warning.

 The buzz in his hands never slows, trying in vain to get the baby to come around. Still, for all his abilities and take charge manner, nothing seems to work. Four minutes have passed since baby Evans coded, and there is still no heart rate, no respiration. Nothing.

“Four mEqs of bicarb, please,” Harry tries. Louis empties the needle with an infant-sized dose of sodium bicarbonate into the umbilical line, knuckles white from how hard he’s gripping the barrel of the syringe. He’s looking at Harry intently, and he just now notices the dark shadows smudged under Louis' eyes. Harry wants to make him feel better, show him that he’s got it under control. Wants to prove he’s not just giving this baby more code drugs for the heck of it. Wants to show him he's still got hope for Ezekiel too.

“That bicarb should counter the acids in his blood. He’s been down for a while now...it might even give the epi a jumpstart,” Harry says, eyes flickering up to Louis. The nurse’s face remains downcast, filling up syringes with more drugs. Harry sighs, and orders more albumin to be pushed into the baby’s catheter to the replace the blood loss.

“Let’s have a shot of dextrose. It might help improve his circulation, and I don’t want to lose any brain function.” Nothing happens. 

He orders another dose of epi. Then another. Baby Evans should’ve been cartwheeling from all the drugs by now, but there is still no response. He’s only been in the NICU for five minutes, although it feels like much longer.

“One minute Apgar three, five minute zero,” Louis announces, desperation creeping into his raspy, high pitched voice. Zero means no heartbeat, no respiration, no movement. No life.

“Alright, Ezekiel? Hello, darling. Come on, you’re out,” Harry coos at the still newborn. He can see everyone around him, with the exception of Louis and the respiratory therapist, flinch at the use of the baby’s given name. Calling babies by their surnames supposedly helps the staff not get too attached to the child, but Harry’s always thought that was a load of shit. It’s a baby, everyone going to get attached.

Ezekiel’s skin is no longer grey but a chalky white, bloodless and pale under the harsh bulbs of the warmer. He startles at Louis’s small hand, coming up beside his, to peel back one of the baby’s eyelids. He’s checking to see if the pupils have blown, a sign of irreparable brain damage. He grimaces and says gently, “They’re not blown.”

“More epi, blood, and bicarb. The little lad is trying to tell us he still has a chance,” Harry says, a small smile on his face. The respiratory therapist continues to suck more crimson fluid out from the baby’s lungs, but he’s got a worried look fixed on Louis, who’s still doing compressions, the picture of concentration. He can’t think about why that would be right now but reminds himself to ask the respiratory therapist later.

“Christ, he feels cold,” Louis whimpers quietly, his voice laced with agony. The baby’s icy skin can be felt even through his gloves. Ezekiel has been at the NICU for ten minutes now, and his Apgar score remains a daunting zero.

 

///☤///

 

They reach the twelve minute mark, and Louis is close to losing it. He shakes his head. It doesn’t make sense. The staff calls these cases sucker punches because they’re grueling and unexpected, just like a punch to the stomach. Ezekiel’s parents had probably experienced a textbook pregnancy up until Mrs. Evans’ labor, dreaming about their lovely baby boy they could take home, dress in cozy, handmade bonnets, and take on walks in the park in his little pram. His parents had every right to expect a perfect child, and why shouldn't they? Didn’t every doctor’s visit and lab test say so? Wasn’t that the deal? If they did everything they were supposed to do, then they would get to take home a healthy newborn, right? Preemies, birth defects, and developmental issues often come with a warning. Parents have time to prepare themselves for the uncertainty and challenges to come.

However, with a sudden crash like Ezekiel, the baby is full term, outwardly beautiful. Watching a chubby, full term baby like Ezekiel cling to the normal life he was fated is excruciating. His hair has started to dry in wayward strawberry blonde wisps, curling away from his colorless, fat cheeks. Louis wills himself not to tear up again. He keeps up his compressions, ignoring his cramping fingers. He knows that if he does these compressions right and keeps supplying blood to the rest of Ezekiel's body, he’s still got a chance. He doesn’t want to, but he’s desperate, so he looks up and begs the attending with his eyes not to call the code just yet. Louis knows that babies, particularly full term ones, are remarkably resilient. The attending gives him a small nod, eyes locked on his.

“Please, love. You can do it,” Louis urges the baby. His voice sounds thick and choked, and for a second he’s embarrassed that his first meeting with the handsome attending had to be like this. He’s usually pretty smooth, even at the worst of times. He looks up from Ezekiel's still chest to the doctor’s face again. Clear green stares back at him, unwavering, even when he asks for a sixth and final dose of epi, please.

The nurse who Louis has been trading off turns doing compressions with scrambles for the drug, slamming it down the breathing tube, just like the first time. Louis stops his compressions. He, Niall, and the attending bend over the motionless baby watching for any sign of life. For a moment, everyone in the room collectively holds their breath, an eerie, quiet, hopeful pause.   

 “ _Come on_ , baby,” Louis pleads one more time, and a moment later, Ezekiel's mouth parts, ever so slightly. Everyone leans forward hesitantly as if they aren’t quite sure if what they just saw was in fact, real. It’s just a few moments after the twelve minute mark. Ezekiel went twelve minutes without a breath or a heartbeat. His tiny purple lips open wider, and his chest appears to shake. Then, with two mighty, shuddering gasps, he begins to breathe. The last dose of epinephrine must’ve done the trick.

“I’ve got a pulse,” Louis cries out, holding back a smile. He watches the attending listen to the infant’s heartbeat, silently signaling the pulse rate by raising and lowering his index finger in time with the beat. The pulse rate starts at forty, then eighty, and suddenly skyrockets to over a hundred and stable. The code is over, just as abruptly as it began.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello i'm back with more!! I'm still not too sure how i feel about this fic. I know what I want as far as plot, and I've got all the chapters planned out, but i really underestimated the time it takes to WRITE. like??? I feel like i've written so much and it just ends up being 4k. I'm pathetic, lmao. But yeah! I hope you all like this.

“Let’s get him swaddled in a warm blanket; he’s freezing. Someone get his weight, temp, vitals, and measurements for his chart. We’ll need to get him on the oscillator, too. I also want a cardiopulmonary monitor on him and updates every 30 minutes, please.” Harry says, already backing out of the treatment room. The NICU team seems relieved by Ezekiel’s turnaround, but Harry knows the baby’s got loads of tests ahead of him, not to mention the risk of brain damage from those terrifying twelve minutes. He's sure someone heard his orders, but he needs them all to understand that just because Ezekiel didn't die doesn't mean he's going to be okay. The case is just as severe as it was when Ezekiel was wheeled out of the helicopter barely breathing earlier this morning. He steps in front of the doorway.

“I have a feeling it's pulmonary hypertension,” Harry announces, his voice taking on authoritative timbre, hard and sobering. He straightens his shoulders, sweeping his gaze across the treatment room. Everyone turns to look at him. The warm excitement that had been floating in the air grows cold, then dissipates entirely, only silence remaining. 

Harry inhales, hoping to hide the hiding the quiver in his voice with his body language. If he looks scared, they will be too. "His prognosis is still hesitant. He might recover completely. He might have irreparable brain damage. He might fall somewhere between the two extremes. We don't know. Right now, we are to deal with his lung bleeding. He might need nitric oxide treatments, so if it gets to that point, I don't want any of you to be surprised," He cautions, still eyeing the NICU team steadily.

"You all know lungs are different. Whatever you come into this world with has to keep you alive. Ezekiel’s lungs can be assisted, they can be given time to heal, but they cannot be fixed the way a surgeon can resect a bowl or repair an aorta." The faces around him look tired, their stares empty and somber. Sometimes medicine is like that. Sometimes miracles are taken away, like the fleeting moment between a great ending to a dream you were having, and the moment you open your eyes and forget it all. 

He can see Louis out of the corner of his eye, who had been pretending he wasn't listening to his speech, exhale quietly, and clutch the baby tighter to his chest. Harry's stomach twists at the sight. He's never had the urge to sugar coat things, never seen the point in it, but one look at the pretty nurse's dejected state has him backtracking. “I’m sorry if I've overwhelmed any of you, that wasn't the point of this. His lungs are the priority for now," Harry sighs dejectedly, regretting opening his mouth already. He never meant to discourage anyone, especially Louis. "We can worry about long-term problems later," he placates, flicking his eyes to Louis.

Louis responds by cocking his head, eyes narrowing into angry slits. The whole effect of his _‘I’m fucking pissed at you’_ look is softened somewhat by the baby in his arms, but at this moment Harry wants nothing more than to sprint out the door and transfer hospitals. He can feel a blush creeping its way onto his cheeks, the tops of his ears burning. He needs to get out of here. Harry tears his eyes away from Louis, breathing out sharply and turning around, muttering a quiet, “thank you” to the team, hoping to continue doing his rounds back down at the regular newborn nursery uninterrupted. 

“Wait! Doctor–” 

Harry’s stomach drops. He had been debating on pretending like nothing had happened or just ignoring Louis for the rest of his life out of pure embarrassment, but it appears Louis has already made a choice for him. He clenches his hands and stops walking abruptly, squeezing his eyes in defeat. “Styles. Doctor Harry Styles, but please, call me Harry,” Harry says, finally turning around to face Louis, a fake uneasy smile plastered on his face.

It’s a Big Mistake. Louis has a soft pink flush high on his cheeks, probably from the adrenaline caused by the code, dainty arms furiously crossed across his chest, and his button nose is turned up at him. A subtle sheen of sweat covers his tan skin, reminding Harry of the sparkling dew that dotted his mother's roses in the morning on his way to school. He’s _glowing_. Like some sort of angel. A medical, magical...nurse...angel. Whatever. Harry is totally fucked. He tries to offer Louis one of his more charming smiles, the ones his sister says make him look like belongs in one of those stupid, singing toothpaste commercials, but it comes out more like a grimace. He extends his hand to shake Louis’, silently willing himself not to do anything dimwitted, but he fears the damage has already been done. 

“Yes, well, _Doctor Styles_ ,” Louis says scathingly, ignoring Harry's outstretched hand. “What happened in that treatment room was entirely unprofessional. You don't get to act all high and mighty after what you just did!" Harry quickly lowers his now clammy hand, wiping it on his white coat. This is not going to end well.

"I don’t know what working in a hospital means to you, but you’ve got someone’s life–” He’s shoving a finger into Harry’s chest, physically trying to push him out of the unit. Louis show of strength is anything but powerful, but it catches Harry off guard, causing him to stumble a few steps back. 

“A _baby’s_ life… in your hands! We can’t afford any mistakes." Louis pushes harder this time, enough for Harry's back to touch the wall. Louis' chest is pressed against his; his smaller trainers lined up toe to toe with Harry's larger ones. He can even smell Louis' shampoo, light and slightly floral.

"I will not have mistakes in _my_ NICU, especially not from the likes of you, so I suggest you bugger off,” Louis finishes, eyes cold and steely. He doesn't back down for a second, even though he has to tilt his head to look up at Harry through his thick eyelashes.

_Harry is so fucked._

The minute Louis realizes how close they are, he clears his throat and quickly steps out of Harry's personal space. Harry finds himself immediately missing the warmth. He's not sure if it's his imagination running wild, but the pink on Louis' cheeks intensifies, the rosy tint contrasting prettily with his golden skin. 

“ _Your_ NICU? Aren’t you just... a nurse? Wait, no. Sorry, I didn’t–” Harry snaps his mouth shut, knowing it’ll only make the situation worse. Louis is just so _distracting_. He rubs a hand over his face, looking up the ceiling and silently asking whatever superior being out there who allowed him to be this dense. Louis probably thinks he’s gone mad. He didn’t even mean it in a bad way, he respects nurses, he really does, he’s just never met one that oversaw a whole NICU. Stuff like that was usually left up to the doctors and other coordinators. He didn't even address Louis' main issue. He can already picture what his gravestone will say. _Harry Styles. A great doctor, friend, and world class knobhead._

“It’s not actually mine, you tosspot,” Louis snarls, small fists clenched. “What I meant is that this place is my home. These babies are my responsibility for twelve hours a day, five days a week. I’m in here more than my own flat!” Louis angrily points to the on-call room, his whole body tense, letting out a disbelieving laugh. “I take all holiday shifts. I’m always on call, by choice. You being here jeopardized the safety of one of my patients. I don’t give a flying fuck that you looked away for only two seconds. Two seconds is _everything_ here.” 

Louis’ face changes. It’s subtle, but the startling blue of his eyes suddenly looks grey and forlorn, like a shipwreck at the bottom of the ocean floor, eyes widening and eyebrows knitting together. His voice is quieter when he continues, “One slip up will cost you a life, and I doubt you’ll be able to afford one of those, despite your undoubtedly heavy salary.” He scoffs, words dripping with sarcasm despite the heavy fog of tension in the air between them. He must notice the look on Harry’s face, because suddenly the haunted look in his eyes is gone, as if it were just a trick of the light. “The minute a baby comes in through those doors, I treat them as if I were treating my own flesh and blood. So, no, this isn’t my NICU, but it might as well be!” His chest is heaving like he's just run around the whole hospital.

"Christ. Louis...I- I apologize. It won't happen again, I-"

"See that it doesn't."

And with that, Louis' gone; crossing to the far side of the unit to change a fussy baby's nappy, smiling and cooing at the child like he wasn't just shooting daggers at Harry a few seconds ago. He's a bit miffed he didn't get to finish his apology to Louis. He deserved one. He'd wanted to tell him that he agreed with him, that he was sorry, and that he was very impressed with his skills. Harry would have to find a way to tell him soon, and no, it wasn't because he wanted an excuse to talk to the most beautiful man he'd ever seen without him ripping his face off. It was just proper manners, and all that.

He glances over at Louis once more before letting the NICU doors swing closed behind him, bright yellow trainers squeaking on the freshly cleaned floor. On the short walk to the newborn nursery, he remembers the way Louis' face fell for that one split second when he was shouting at him, and maybe it's weird to be worried about someone he just met, but he is. Maybe he was right earlier. Maybe he really is going mad. He can't help laughing at himself, shaking his head slowly. He's worried about a feisty little nurse that only talked to him just to tear him a new one. _Definitely_ going mad then. 

///☤///

"No, you don't get it! I want to anesthetize him and shove him in a supply closet! —Actually, that’s quite brilliant. Write that down, Niall."

Liam clears his throat over Niall's loud cackle, pointing an accusing finger at Louis. "I don't think you actually hate him. If anything, I think you might fancy him a bit. He's all you've been talking about for the past thirty minutes," Liam says, leaning back in his chair, an impish smile on his face. 

That starts Niall back up again, managing to tease Louis through breathless giggles. "He's right, mate! You haven't shut your trap about 'im since we sat down!"

"Oi! Piss off! It's because I _hate_ him! People complain about the things they hate. I don't have a crush! Besides, last time I checked you were a social worker, Liam, not a psychologist," Louis huffs. Bastards, the lot of them.

"I'm just saying," Liam sniggers, his eyes sparkling with mirth, fist bumping Niall under the table. Damn Liam and his perceptiveness. 

Louis glares at them. "I saw that!"

"S'just that we've never seen you, you know, so... _invested_ in someone closer to your age," Liam says with a smirk, elbowing Niall, who snorts behind the hand covering his mouth.

"And what is _that_ supposed to mean?" Louis retorts, leaning against the door of the nurses' lounge. He crosses his arms over his chest and lifts an eyebrow, waiting for the wankers he considers his best friends to inevitably take the piss out of him.

"Oh, nothing! It's just that you never really care about someone this much unless they're a patient in your precious NICU,” Liam taunts, copying Louis’ facial expression and throwing the arm that’s not holding his mug around Niall’s shoulders, who’s unsuccessfully holding back laughter.

"Excuse me, Liam! It's your precious NICU too! And for your information, I do happen to have a life outside of this place. This may come as a bit of a shock to you all, but yes, I date! I just don't kiss and tell like you gits." He turns around to wash his mug and to hide the look of utter despair on his face. Louis’ rebuttal doesn’t even sound convincing to his own ears, but he refuses to own up to the fact that he hasn't gone on a proper date in a year, especially to these two arseholes.

"Alright, Tommo! No need to get in a strop about it," Liam relents, raising hands in mock surrender. "We believe you, don't we, Niall?"

"Of course!" Niall's "reassurance" sounds faker than Louis' claim to actually have a life outside the hospital. Tosser. Louis tries to hold back the flush making its way up his chest, knowing that it’ll give away his true embarrassment about the current situation. With his luck, of course, he’s unsuccessful.

Liam and Niall start laughing up a storm, matching serial killer looking grins on their faces, causing Louis to roll his eyes and suppress a smile of his own. These two, honestly. 

"Right. Well, I'm off. Have fun discussing the intimate details of my personal life, Dumb and Dumber," Louis says, itching to get back to the unit; he needs to check on the drug baby from yesterday. He slams the door of the break room closed before Liam and Niall can reply. He can’t have the whole hospital knowing his business.

He catches his reflection in one of the windows in the corridor and scrunches up his nose. He looks tired—with a full day still ahead of him. The code took a lot out of him; the fringe he had so meticulously styled at the ungodly hours of the morning is sticking to his forehead, limp and stringy. He lifts a hand to fix it, but then stops, letting it hang in midair. This is as good as its going to get, honestly, and who’s he trying to look good for anyway?! Certainly _not_ Dr. Styles. Louis turns away from the window with a huff and walks the rest of the way into his unit, considering shaving all shaving all his hair like Britney Spears did that one time just so he wouldn’t have to deal with it anymore.

All thoughts of his hair disappear once he steps into the NICU, the air shifting around him, heavy and serious. It feels like the air of a war zone, Life on one side, Death on the other. He swears he feels it, the palpable change in the air, the only place in his hospital where he can feel death breathing down his back, despite Niall’s weird looks and endless ribbing. It takes a special kind of person to make a career here, and those who make it never tend to leave. The NICU is a strange place; everything moves at hyper speed, yet not fast enough, but it still blurs past him before he can catch up. He’s still got a few minutes left of break, so he decides to watch the NICU in action, leaning behind the counter at the nurse’s station. Everyone’s too focused to pay him any mind anyway.

He can hear the interns shuffling their feet and notepads, making last minute entries into an ill child’s chart. He trains his eyes on the respiratory therapists, moving from baby to baby in pale green scrubs, adjusting ventilator pressures and oxygen flows, responding to alarms and looking for the telltale heaving chests of a baby approaching asphyxia. Medical specialists from various departments perch on stools as they leaf through charts and scribble hurried recommendations. They look fidgety; it’s not an easy place to be. But, the doctors must come to the babies; they’re far too delicate to transfer from unit to unit. In the far-left corner of the NICU, a surgeon wearing magnifying binoculars is bent over his work like a watchmaker, so small are his patient’s organs and vessels. On the right side of the unit, ultrasound techs are glancing at their video screens, capturing ghostly images of tiny brains and hearts and kidneys, the organs swimming in and out of focus as they move their magic wands over their patients.

The tremulous movement of the unit could be enough to make someone sick, but not Louis. He closes his eyes, determined to take in everything about this place. To remember why he loved working here, trying to understand why now it feels more like a prison when it used to be the only place he could spread his wings.

_They used to call him an angel._

If he listens hard enough, the sounds of the NICU almost sound like heaven’s choir. The distinctive timpani chug of the oscillators hooked up to the babies with the most delicate and banged up lungs, offset by the snare-drum whoosh and hiss of the conventional vents and the train engine chug and rain drop patter of the high frequency jet. The slice and wet click of surgical tools are almost drowned out by the muffle of voices but are still present. The soft trickle of a warming table gone too hot or too cold molds itself against the soprano ring of the pulse oximeter, which then blends with the tenor and baritone alarms signaling a blood pressure drop or respiratory failure. A high-pitched jingle of a cardiac monitor follows, almost melodiously. _Church bells._

Louis’ eyes snap open, breathing harshly through his nose. He hadn’t realized he’d been gripping the counter, his knuckles white and palms sweaty.

No one calls him _that_ anymore. Not because they don’t want to, but because he’d asked them to stop. He didn’t have magical powers to save people, and if he did, they sure as hell didn’t work here. He’s nobody’s guardian angel anymore.

“Angel of Death, more like,” Louis mutters, pushing himself off the counter. He’s still got five more minutes of break left, but doing nothing makes him a little antsy, if he’s being honest. He’s always been somewhat restless and fidgety, can’t stand the idea of sitting still.

There is only one sound missing from the high-tech orchestra of the NICU, and that sound is crying babies. Some of them are stopped by the tubes down their throats, many are sedated, others are placed in a drug induced state, and few, like the Callahan baby, are all three. He’s never heard her say a peep, due to all the tubes and medication, but he can see the pain on her face clear as day.

“I know, darling. I know. Oh, you poor thing,” Louis whispers, peeling off her soiled nappy. He knows that if Ella could cry, she would be at this very moment. Her expression is not that of a healthy baby—the screwed up, red faced, pick-me-up expression—but a hollow cheeked, twitching, look of pain for which there is little relief. She’s got her fists waving around in jerky, unnatural movements, almost as if she were receiving small electric shocks.

Louis knows that Westminster Children’s is one of the handful of hospitals in the region that have the means to bring a baby through drug withdrawal— while also treating the major complications that could come from that. So, drug babies are a part of his everyday life, unfortunately. It’s not uncommon to have more than ten drug babies in their seventy-bed unit, but he still feels a surge of anger whenever a new one comes in.

Once he finishes carefully wiping Ella’s bottom, he slathers on some diaper cream to soothe her rash. Louis is exceedingly gentle with all the babies, no matter what he’s doing, but he's especially careful with this, not wanting to cause her any more trouble. All the drugs Ella’s mother had taken made Ella’s feces too acidic, causing the red and almost excoriated burns on her bum. None of this is Ella’s fault, yet every day she lays down in her cot in pain all because of her junkie mother. Louis loves giving these babies the love they deserve, loves helping, but sometimes the unfairness and injustice he sees leaves him feeling empty and hopeless. The only answer he ever gets to his questions of _why is this allowed to happen_ , and _why would anyone do this_ , and _how are we supposed to suppress how we feel about this_ , are always met with the same answer: “it’s just part of the job.” He’s always known he wanted to be a nurse, and he knew about the NICU’s hidden skeletons and secrets long before he came to work at Westminster, but the fact that he sees so many outwardly perfect, full term babies born to underserving parents makes his blood boil. 

He sighs, tossing the dirty nappy in the bin beside Ella’s cot. He changes his gloves and wraps Ella tightly in her blanket, like little burrito. Drug babies usually respond well to being bundled. Slowly but surely, Ella’s silent cries slow, and she seems to relax in Louis arms, her small body pliant and soft against his chest.

“I’m gonna take care of you, little one. Don’t you worry about it,” Louis murmurs, settling himself and Ella down on one of the unit’s rocking chairs close to her cot. He knows rocking helps too, and he wants her to be at least a little more comfortable before he moves on to his next patient. Ella only makes a few small snuffling sounds behind the tube, grey eyes blinking slowly, lulled by the smooth back and forth of the chair. She’s a full-term baby, and looks massive compared to the little ones Louis’ used to, but he still uses delicate touches, careful not to wreck any more of her abused nervous system.

Ella’s eyes are closed now, long lashes sweeping across her cheeks. Her breathing is still a bit quick, her tube fogging up quickly with each breath. He cuddles her closer, hoping his warmth and heartbeat will pacify her. The other nurses tease Louis, call him a proper mother hen, but he doesn’t really think it’s like that. He just…these are _babies_. He helped raise quite a few of them, knows how much of a pain in the arse they can be, but still. They’re innocent. Completely void of any evil or malice and entirely helpless. Babies need love, babies need cuddles, and sick babies need a damn good nurse, and he’ll always provide all three, whatever it takes.

The rocking of the chair is starting to persuade him into closing his eyes. He’s hasn’t slept very well in a while. Doesn’t know if he’s even slept at all. He sings Ella a lullaby, one his mother would sing to him as a child, but it’s more to keep himself awake.

“ _Hill and dale in slumber sleeping,_ _I my loved ones' watch am keeping, all through the night…”_  


His quiet melody gets interrupted by the shrill beeps and loud shuffle of the NICU, but Louis and Ella hardly notice. He doesn’t dare shut his eyes, but he knows if he does, the darkness behind his eyelids will take him back to when he was a kid again, helping his mum by rocking one of his sisters to sleep. He gazes down at Ella sweetly, the mid-morning sunlight trickling through the window frosts the tips of the wispy hair around her head golden, like a halo. He thinks back to the day they brought her in with a smirk, knowing how much of a little shit he can be when he wants to. Her mother had dared to beg for the same morphine drip he’d put Ella on, and Louis, well, Louis’ never been good at holding his tongue.

Ella’s little chest rises and falls evenly with each breath she takes. She’ll probably go off the ventilator soon. He heaves himself out of the padded rocking chair as steadily as he can, determined not to wake the now sleeping baby. Louis gently lowers her into her cot, tucking around another blanket around her, her favorite one with the cats on it, just in case. He reads off her vitals, checks her drip, quickly charts her bowel movement, and strips his gloves. On to the next one.

///☤///

“Brilliant,” Harry mutters, yanking a hand through his short curls in exasperation. “I might just already be half way in love with him, and he hates me.”

Harry’s been staring at Louis for the past ten minutes. Not in a creepy way, of course, even if he’s hiding behind a conveniently placed curtain. No one can blame him, really. The sight before him is just too cute and impressive to behold! He’d been trying to calm the Callahan baby for what felt like hours after he’d examined her, and failed. Harry hated leaving a crying baby, but he was on a tight schedule, the code messing with his already hectic morning routine.

When he first came in and saw Louis approach the Callahan baby, he grimaced, preparing himself to witness the sight of the baby girl’s face screwed up in pain, red and hot to the touch. However, the baby seemed far less agitated than this morning, her chubby limbs only lazily jerking at Louis’ fingers, expression annoyed, but not as tight. Louis had looked so natural with the fussy baby in his arms, singing to her drowsily on a rocking chair until she calmed down long enough to sleep. Louis’ soft smile never faded when he held the little girl, the corners of his mouth sloping gently upward, rosy lips framing his delicate, raspy voice, whispering a sweet nursery rhyme to the baby in his arms. Harry hadn’t been here long, just half a day, but he knew that getting the Callahan baby to sleep was no easy task. What he just saw Louis do confirmed what he already knew; Louis was made for this job. He had something that couldn’t be taught in nursing school; a warmth that clung to him, one the babies seemed to feel, too. He had an air of softness and stability, yelling sharp orders during codes and whispering gentle encouragements to newer nurses.

There really was no one better for the job, but it almost seemed like Louis…held himself back. Harry had been mulling over the respiratory therapist’s worried glance during the code and connected it to Louis’ earlier outburst and the emptiness in his eyes. There was something he was punishing himself over. Something that had sunk his spirit. Maybe his chastising had been some sort of warning. _Don’t fuck up like I did._ Harry had to force himself not to go over to Louis and tell him that doctors everyone _wish_ for nurses like him. That parents look up to him for guidance and comfort. That the babies depend on him and trust him. Maybe he would’ve even offered him to go out for drinks later.

However, the louder voice in his head warns him to lay low for now. Louis doesn’t seem like the type of boy who would appreciate some gangly idiot prying into his life. Ripping his gaze off the nurse, Harry reminds himself he still has a very important job to do, one that doesn’t involve admiring how Louis is like all day. He slips out from behind the curtain with a loud rustle, damning his clumsiness, and feels Louis’ eyes fall on him from across the unit. Still the same, then. He feels prickly goosebumps rise on the back of his neck, meeting Louis’ blank stare full on.

Whenever Harry looks into Louis’ eyes, he always sees two things. Endless blue, and the almost threatening promise that Louis holds the duality of being both a hurricane and the calm eye of a storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can find me on tumblr at itstomlinson

**Author's Note:**

> So that's the first chapter for you! I highly doubt this will get popular, but honestly, I just wanted to indulge myself, lol. I have a substantial medical dump in my brain, and it's gotta go somewhere! Next chapter up soon. Thanks for reading!


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